April 8th, 2007

Musing drily on the week’s current affairs with a dig and a tickle of the ribs

As I trawl the numerous gazettes outlining the goings on and “up and coming” events in the world of music, I observe that a number of contemporary pop groups, including Oasis, The Killers, Razorlight, Travis and The Fratellis, will be covering tracks from The Beatles’s noted 1967 album Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band for a BBC2 studio special on the 40th anniversary of its release.

Douse my cock in f***ing acid, what c***brained, anus-faced retrograde f***ing barrel-scraper came up with this desperate f***ing idea? This Being For The Benefit Of precisely which Mr C***? Frankly, I’d rather watch the Director buy viagra General publicly wiping his arse on live TV with the f***ing money I pay towards my f***ing licence fee than watch some greasy-haired f***ing 21st century nobody hacking his way through f***ing “Lovely Rita Meter Maid”! Have these f***ing loathsome little snotsworths not got one original f***ing idea between them? Suppose 40 years ago, The f***ing Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who and The Kinks had f***ing got together to re-record a version of that delightfully seminal 1927 wax cylinder recording “Step Into The Gazebo, Gertrude, My Frolicsome Gaiety Girl” by Claude “Snake-Hips” Dullard And The Syncopated Toe-Tapping Blackface Banjo Boys? We’d have thought, what a gaggle of complete c***s, and rightly f***ing so, you extraneous, execrable f***ing arsewarts!

It seems that, 30 years after his death, the author JRR Tolkien is to produce another novel in his Lord Of The Rings series, retrieved from notes begun in 1918 but never completed.

Ooh! Ooh! Goody! The elves! The Orcs! Morgoth, to whom the cheap viagra noble Hurin shall not yield! Middle Earth! Ooh, I can’t wait! For c***’s sake! They’re f***ing kid’s books! Get it? Children! Not those with a childlike sense of f***ing curiosity but the actual, verifiable under f***ing 12s! Anyone with f***ing pubic hair caught reading a f***ing Tolkien book should be treated the same way as you would a grown adult caught f***ing loitering around a kids’ playground, ie bundled into a f***ing paddywagon, taken down the station and kicked black and f***ing blue by the f***ing desk sergeant all the way down to the holding cell! C***s!

There has been some dismay expressed at the conduct of the 15 British military personnel held captive by the Iranians for supposedly having entered their waters before being subsequently released. Andrew Roberts of The Sunday Times has expressed his dismay and disapproval that the soldiers did not confine themselves to merely giving their name, rank and serial numbers to their captors, and speaks of his “gorge rising” at the full confessions they gave on Iranian TV regarding their supposed trespass.

It’s been f***ing edifying, hasn’t it, and certainly gorge-lowering, witnessing the f***ing armchair courage of the Fourth Estate in full effect! If it’s not that fat f***ing dickwilter Littlejohn, it’s f***ing blue-arsed trail of f***ing Tory ooze Roberts! Listen, you vile, column-filling crock of f***ing smarm, if you were in palpable f***ing danger of being dangled by your f***ing knackers from a lamppost in the main square of f***ing Tehran with members of the f***ing Revolutionary Guard whacking you like a f***ing pinyatta, you’d have confessed as quickly as you browned your f***ing trousers, you toadlike little c***!

Peter Manfredo, the pugilist who has made such an impression on American audiences with his success in the reality TV show The Contender, attempted last Saturday to make good his dream of becoming world super middleweight boxing champion when he challenged Wales’s Joe Calzaghe. Millions of Americans tuned in and watched in hope.

And Calzaghe trounced your sorry, hyped-up American arse, didn’t he? It was f***ing hilarious! He didn’t even have to punch you, he just generic viagra had to slap you about a bit, like a f***ing girl! F*** your dream, you were 10 seconds away from being put in a f***ing coma! Reality TV meets actual f***ing reality and it’s a f***ing no contest! They might as well have had f***ing Gareth Gates in there! The headline in tomorrow’s New York Times should be “C*** From Nation Of C***s Gets Roundly Twatted Like The Twatty C*** He Is” but I’ve a funny feeling they’ll skirt round that uncomfortably profound f***ing truth!

They Might Be Giants are back! They have a new album, The Else, due for release on July 13.

Let’s f***ing face it, the world needs a f***ing They Might Be Giants revival like it needs a f***ing tuberculosis revival! A life spent wondering when They Might Be Giants are gonna make another f***ing album is a life that should have been humanely terminated many f***ing years ago! Anyone who is caught buying, downloading or playing this f***ing album should be battered repeatedly around the f***ing head and face with a f***ing dead elephant’s dick in a stocking! Specky c***s!

Finally, it seems that Wembley will play host to a concert in honour of the late Princess Diana, who died ten years ago. It will take place on July 1, which would have been her birthday. Among those booked for the concert, which is being overseen by the Princes William and Harry, are Dire Straits, Meatloaf, James Morrison, Rod Stewart and Joss Stone. It is also hoped that Take That will participate, perhaps even be joined by their founder member Robbie Williams.

You know, ten years after she died, Diana’s bloom remains undimmed. She was, and will be for ever more, England’s first and finest flower, beaming radiantly throughout eternity, from Heaven where she sits, next to God and the late Princess Margaret. It is deeply moving that a whole host of top pop stars have taken time out of their busy schedules to pay tribute to she who still reigns o’er our hearts. I therefore beseech you, Almighty God, who chose for doubtless good reasons to take back your favourite daughter that fateful night in Paris, to see to it that the night of this concert is not marred by a squadron of hangliding suicide bombers descending into Wembley Stadium, led by my goodself, on a mission to f***ing reduce the c***iness of the UK by a third at a stroke by taking out the legions of c***s who were c*** enough actually to have bought f***ing tickets to this cavalcade of f***ing clapped out c***rags, f***ing has beens and inexplicably still-ares, caterwauling tossbloaters and syncopated shite shovellers, these f***ing dead-arsed, dead blonde loving diarrhea squirting unapologetically from the f***ing arse ring of humanity! Because that’s not what the Princes would have wanted!

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